lying comatose in my littered backyard,
with wet fingerish twigs on its neck.
I took it home and colors spilled
onto my hands and poured into
my eyes as I wiped at teardrops.
I placed the peacock on my bed,
talking it in back to life, stroking
its sleeping rainbows, its inert fan
of moist quills.
A few perfect circles were drawn
on the bedsheet as the bird tried
to stir and open its eyes. The night
was black when it died.
Every day I now dream of huge
peacocks pecking at my heart,
the weight of the birds pushing
me into the colorful abyss opening
in my bed; my cries killed by bloody
fingers creeping around my parched throat. LS